But what matter if he didn't?

MOSCON. Matter quite enough, your worship;
He has no business there.

CLARIN. Why, prithee?

MOSCON. Why? because I die for Livia,
Who is maid to this Justina,
And I wouldn't have even the sun
Get a glimpse of her through the window.

CLARIN. Well, that's good; but, for a lady,
To contend were worse than silly,
Whom I mean to make my wife.

MOSCON. Excellent, faith! the fancy tickles
Quite my fancy. Let her say
Who it is that annoys or nicks her
To a nicety. Let's go see her,
And she'll choose.

CLARIN. A good idea!--
Though I fear she'll pitch on you.

MOSCON. Have you then that wise suspicion?

CLARIN. Yes; for always these same Livias
Choose the worst, th'ungrateful minxes.*
[Exeunt.